‘“Bring me a fuckin’ knife!” I go get Mr Sam a carving knife and he cut that porterhouse steak in four pieces. It a big steak and I can see it through all the way medium rare. Hector, he a good meat chef, he done a fine job like always. Then Mr Sam he tip the plate o’ meat on the floor and he stamp it, each piece meat wid his heel, hard down on every one them four pieces steak.’
‘Christ!’ was all I could think to say.
‘He hand Hector the plate. “Pick it up, nigger!” Hector bend down and he put the four pieces of steak back on that plate and stand up again.
‘“Open yo fuckin’ mouth! Eat it!”
‘“Nossir, Mr Sam, I ain’t,” Hector say.
‘Mr Sam, he call out and soon he got his two . . .’ Napoleon paused to find a word that wouldn’t offend.
‘Gangsters,’ I suggested.
He nodded. ‘They come up and they got pistols, automatic. They put a gun each side Hector’s head,’ Napoleon demonstrated, holding both forefingers, one to each brow. “Eat that fucking steak, you crock o’ nigger shit!” Sammy yell out one more time.’ Chef Napoleon Nelson looked up at me and his eyes welled with tears. ‘I know they cain’t shoot Hector – too many witness. Hurtin’, that one thing, but shootin’ black folk wid so many witness, even in the south they cain’t do that. But I don’t say nothing, you hear . . . it my kitchen and I a coward, I don’t say nothin’. Hector take one piece stepped-on steak and put it in his mouth, but it too big so he cain’t chew, one side stickin’ out. Mr Sam grab a kitchen towel and he ram dat piece meat into Hector’s mouth while dem two gangsters hold his head.’ Chef Napoleon Nelson made a twisting motion. ‘Hector, he begin to choke hisself. “I hope you die, you fuckin’ piece a shit!” Mr Sam says. Then he turn and he hand me that cloth. “Clean my fuckin’ shoes, chef!”’ Chef Napoleon Nelson hung his head in shame, shaking it from side to side, and said softly, ‘Then I done that.’ He looked up. ‘Mr Sam, he stab Hector in his chest wid his finger. “You cook one more steak like that, you fired!” he say. Then he says to me, “You also, nigger!” Then they gone leave, the two gangsters laughing and slapping Mr Sam on the back, imitatin’ his limpin’, that way they do it.’
I was silent a moment, shocked by the story. ‘Please let me tell Mr Lenny or, if you prefer, Miss Bridgett.’
‘No, Mr Sarsaparilla, please don’t you say nothin’, you hear now. Hector got nine kids and his wife, she pregnant one more time, also his daughter, she work here.’ He paused. ‘Only one thing . . .’
‘Yes, anything, just tell me and I’ll do it.’
Napoleon shook his head. ‘No, no, ain’t nothing you can do. Only trouble we got . . . what happen now when some diner he gone order a porterhouse, medium rare?’ He was still thinking like a chef and the need for perfection for his diners.
I realised that I had been accorded a special privilege as a white man. The story of the porterhouse steak would never leave the kitchen. The staff would have understood Chef Napoleon Nelson was protecting Hector’s and his daughter’s jobs, as well as his wife and kids, and he would be respected for his restraint. They would have shared his humiliation at having to wipe Sammy’s shoes. As a coloured man he, and they, were so accustomed to being pushed around and bullied, this latest humiliation had simply to be endured. Life was hard. A roof over your family’s heads and food on the table, hungry mouths and shelter took precedence.
I felt ashamed that there was nothing Chef Napoleon Nelson would permit me to do, lest I jeopardise the positions of his staff. I guess he’d seen more than one ‘porterhouse incident’ and no doubt there would be many more.
Sammy and his two cohorts made quite an impact on the El Marinero; Sammy, in particular, with the kitchen staff, but around town they were a bit of a laugh. Sammy was an inveterate gambler but well known as a regular loser, which meant he was welcomed at any of the other casinos. If he had one of his mind snaps, his two soldiers would guide him off the premises. Sammy was short, fat, physically and mentally damaged, and without his two offsiders, decidedly unintimidating, with his inflated idea of his own abilities, at the gaming table and beyond. Adding necessary muscle was one of their jobs, keeping him out of trouble was the other. As long as he kept losing his gambling stake, which he did regularly, he was tolerated in Glitter Gulch, although he was forbidden to sit in on any of the high-roller games at the El Marinero.
Lenny supervised the gaming staff, with a foreman by the name of Johnny Diamond, a simply terrific guy with whom I often shared private poker games on a Sunday night. Like me, we didn’t play the casinos but we were always up for a private game, sometimes held in a private room at one of the casinos but mostly in a downtown apartment. The stakes were high enough to interest the truly good players, many of them professional gamblers. You could win or drop around a grand but not much more. It was big money, certainly – for me, over a month’s salary – and way, way out of the league of most Las Vegas working guys, so that your fellow players were invariably from out of town: Texas oil men off a rig, guys in the entertainment business, nightclub owners, professional sportsmen and the like, even an occasional banker who’d flown into town looking for a game but didn’t want to be seen at a casino. One of these guys would set up a game, and Johnny and I, and one or two others, would be invited to play. We rarely declined because we were playing with guys we respected for their skill.
Sammy would regularly attempt to play in one of these Sunday-night games. He’d hear of an out-of-town gambler setting up a game and arrive early before the locals, such as Johnny and myself, turned up. On these occasions, we’d make our apologies and leave immediately. It seemed Johnny and I were popular among the local players and the out-of-town guys who visited regularly, and they soon got the message and gave Sammy the brush-off. Curiously, playing with someone who isn’t up to your standard isn’t much fun, even if, as usually happens, you take all his money. It was like taking candy from a kid, and somehow the game lost status when it lowered its standards. Luck played a part, but skill was respected.
The fact that Johnny and I refused to sit in a poker school with Sammy was yet another reason for him to dislike me, and his main reason for disliking Johnny, whom he constantly tried to force Lenny to dismiss. Sammy complained to Chicago that Johnny was stealing money from the take then passing it, after first deducting his percentage, to Lenny to share with Bridgett.
Lenny, in turn, pointed out that Johnny Diamond was one of the most respected pit bosses in Las Vegas and greatly liked by the high rollers, who would be most upset if he were forced to leave the El Marinero. In Mobster terms, greed always wins out over revenge, and Sammy had not a shred of evidence to support his accusations. The El Marinero was very profitable and suited Chicago’s needs ideally, and Tony Accardo didn’t want to rock the boat. He was also well aware of Sammy’s ability as a poker player.
Lenny was nothing if not loyal, and he clearly admired Bridgett Fuller as much as I did. When I questioned him one day about the wisdom of building the Firebird, he grinned. ‘The kikes ain’t stoopid, Jack. The highway, it’s gonna woik. And I reckon the deal Mrs Fuller got wid Chicago includes a cut from the Firebird profits, know what I mean? It stands to reason. She ain’t stoopid.’
I grinned too. ‘No, she’s a very impressive gal.’
Lenny leaned towards me. ‘Rumour is, she’s already got three points in the El Marinero. They say that was one of her conditions when she proposed the GAWP Bar, payment for her list of high rollers from the Waldorf in New Yoik. Makes sense, don’t it, buddy?’
I nodded gloomily. This new knowledge, if true, put an end to my romantic fantasies. The intensity of my reaction to Lenny’s guesswork forced me to acknowledge that I had become infatuated – no, besotted was a better word – with Mrs Bridgett Fuller from the moment she had planted that kiss on my cheek after my audition. Despite her stern warning about fraternising with staff, my overheated imagination had often placed her at the door of my apartment in the early hours of the mornin
g, eager to fall into my arms and my bed for a completely clandestine affair. Okay, if I’m completely honest, for more than an affair. But with the sort of wealth and power she might possess if Lenny was right, I realised that a lowly piano player could never hope to impress her.
Mrs Fuller wasn’t going to let a mere man get in the way of her ambitions, although I wasn’t at all sure what they might be. She obviously came from a classy background, every syllable polished to a fine patina, so it couldn’t just be about money, could it? And the way some of the high rollers looked at her, I reckoned there were lots of easier and safer opportunities to get what she wanted. She certainly didn’t strike me as a man hater; so what, then?
Furthermore, I was discovering that nothing went unobserved in Las Vegas. In a lurid flash I imagined the godfather’s delight when he learned that Bridgett and I were lovers. Whatever protected her clearly didn’t include me, and my sudden elimination would be a perfect way for him to show her who was really in control. I’d end up in the proverbial shallow grave in the desert, one hand sticking out of the sand with a sheet of music clutched in its dead fingers. I was a gambler. It would be easy to circulate rumours of an unpaid poker debt. It wouldn’t be the first time a hand appeared sticking out of a sandy grave holding a card or a gambling chip. Sammy would relish the assignment.
This gory fantasy forced me to face some other unpalatable facts. An affair required mutual attraction. Bridgett had been tremendously thoughtful, kind and generous to me, even occasionally resting her hand on mine for a moment to emphasise a point, undoubtedly an innocent and impulsive gesture that invariably set my heart pumping harder. And yet, I had never detected the slightest sign that I meant anything more to her than as a good jazz pianist. Quite the contrary. A month after Lenny warned me about her no-fraternising-with-staff rule, she’d drawn me aside before I was due to play to ‘her ladies’. ‘Jack, you must know how happy I am about your playing. My ladies love you. There’s been nothing but praise from any of them. They love your playing and, just as importantly, they are all a little in love with you, I suspect.’
I think I blushed. Hearing those words from her lips made me wonder if perhaps she might feel the same but, after a short pause, she continued, ‘Jack, you’re a tall, very good-looking guy and you play like an angel. You’ve got the ideal personality for your audience and you appear to have no hang-ups, no addictions . . .’
If only she knew she was a very serious addiction!
‘. . . no faults that I can detect,’ she smiled up at me and my heart lifted. ‘So,’ she went on, ‘sooner or later, one of my ladies is going to have one too many highballs and make a move on you.’
Perhaps I looked as stunned as I felt. This conversation wasn’t turning out the way I’d hoped. ‘Please, Jack, I’m serious. Do not, under any circumstances, consider responding. It would break my heart to have to fire you.’
It took my fantasy life a while to recover from that blow, but I was young and optimistic and, as I was soon to discover, Las Vegas contained enough pretty young women to distract me from what appeared to be a hopeless infatuation. As time passed, one of them would drop by my apartment and sometimes even cook for me. Lenny’s dishwashing machine would get a rare workout and, if I was lucky, so would my bed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
APART FROM SAMMY’S OCCASIONAL violent eruptions, my first six months at the El Marinero were immensely enjoyable. Fortunately, for much of that time he’d been out of town, organising the final food contracts for the Firebird and taking care of the slot-machine business. The GAWP Bar – or The Princess, as Bridgett’s ladies called it – became more and more successful. Many of the women had been coming to the GAWP Bar since it opened, and regarded each other as old friends, even though they met only once or twice a year. Such was Bridgett’s skill that she teamed newcomers with old hands almost effortlessly, so that the novices soon understood that The Princess was an exclusive club of likeminded women who had a thoroughly good time in each other’s company.
My two sessions at the baby grand, the second ending at 2 a.m., were usually more like fun than hard work and my Sundays off were given over to The Resurrection Brothers, all of whom were nice guys. In my breaks, I enjoyed the company of good men, such as Chef Napoleon Nelson and, when he wasn’t away working on the trains, the diminutive Booker T. Few members of The Resurrection Brothers were professional musicians, but it was a surprisingly good band, playing jazz, blues and gospel to a high standard. It was almost as if the music came naturally, part of the ecstasy and the agony of the coloured people. We also played to an appreciative and knowledgeable audience, and that always lifts the standard of the players.
After we finished playing, I’d usually chew the fat with one or the other member of the band or the audience and, often as not, be invited home for an early dinner. I took this as a huge compliment. Most of these folk had little or no money to spare, but they’d generously share their Sunday-night meal with me. I’d say my goodbyes with my belly full and move on, usually, to a private poker game, generally accompanied by Johnny Diamond, our pit boss at the El Marinero.
My life was full and happy and, apart from the excellent company I enjoyed when I played both poker and music, I was learning heaps. However, the longer I stayed in Las Vegas, the more I became aware of the undercurrents. On the surface it was, I guess, pretty much what you might expect of a largish town in a wealthier part of the US, apart from the unique location and, of course, the gambling and the Mob.
The workforce seemed to be divided by race: Negroes did the heavy lifting; Mexican men worked in the building trade, and women in domestic and hotel work; and families ran small businesses, such as convenience shops, bakeries, grocers’ shops, dry cleaners and laundries, or small local restaurants and bars. Finally, the whites more or less took the cream of the town’s work in supermarkets, gas stations, auto repairs, car dealerships, realtors and drugstores. They also did the bulk of the policing, admin, clerking, medical and municipal work.
Most of the casino employees at the tables and on the floor were white men and women; the latter, essentially cocktail waitresses in tight skirts, revealing blouses and high heels, who were referred to as hostesses and chosen for their looks. Mexican and Negro women worked as chambermaids and cleaners, and most of the kitchen staff were coloured folk.
I learned that the name Las Vegas means ‘The Meadows’ in Spanish, although there were precious few of those to be seen in the desert now. The permanent white residents of Las Vegas liked to boast that it was the cleanest and safest town in America and, in terms of thefts or muggings, crime was almost unknown. The Westside, or coloured section, was, if anything, even safer. You could walk anywhere after midnight without fear of being accosted.
Las Vegas lived and thrived, and still does, on the need humankind seems to have to gamble; to have a bet or take an outside chance. My addiction to poker was just one version of this compulsion, and it was a compulsion. Why else would people come to a nondescript desert town that baked in summer and sometimes froze in winter, often crossing the continent to bring their hard-earned money to a casino dealer, for the privilege of sitting for hours playing a game that is rigged to ensure that, in the long run, they will lose? If you play long enough, the casino will take all of your money; the numbers don’t lie and the establishment doesn’t even have to cheat to do it. In the end, the immutable rules of mathematics will grind you into the dust. I knew that, and yet still I gambled. It was something about the game of poker itself, or so I told myself.
Finally, the Firebird was completed and due to open in mid-January 1947, three weeks after what proved to be the premature opening of Bugsy Siegel’s Flamingo on 26th of December 1946. Siegel had allowed the budget to blow out by millions of dollars, and the schedule was a joke. Perhaps he thought a gala opening would alter his fortunes and get the Flamingo off to a brilliant start.
The town was buzzing with anticipation: all the right people from Hollywood and elsewhere h
ad been invited, and Cuban bandleader Xavier Cugat provided the music, while comedian Jimmy Durante kept everyone happy. Some big movie stars attended, but bad weather kept away many more. Alas, the premature opening of the grand casino proved a disaster and it began to lose even more money. Local journalists had a field day:
FLAMINGO CUT OFF AT THE LEGS!
LEGLESS FLAMINGO CAN’T FLY!
The headlines were pretty corny, but we loved them, at first; then, almost as quickly, we began to grow concerned. If an extravagant, hugely expensive hotel resort casino was doomed to failure on Highway 91, then what of the Firebird? Had Tony Accardo been correct all along? Perhaps a casino seven miles out of downtown Las Vegas was never going to succeed. The Flamingo certainly seemed to confirm his prediction.
Even before the Flamingo disaster, it had been arranged that I would take a two-week vacation in Toronto in the new year before returning to take over the new GAWP Bar at the Firebird. I’d been looking forward to going home. I’d been earning good money and, on top of that, I’d been lucky at cards, so when Lenny insisted he pay my rail fare, I declined. I had more than sufficient money to play the visiting hero, stopping off in New York for a day to shop, then arriving home with an armload of nice gifts for everyone; for my mom and Nick, of course, but also Mac, the twins and especially Miss Frostbite, Joe and Mrs Hodgson at the library. I’d even decided to buy a bottle of perfume for Miss Bates – Bridgett advised Chanel No. 5. After all, without her, where would I be? But I guess, one way or another, this applied to all of them, even to Old Mrs Sopworth from the Presbyterian Clothing Depot who’d supplied most of my clothes. Maybe I’d buy her a pretty hat or a nice handbag . . . a handbag was probably safer.
When I found myself recalling all the women in my life, starting with Miss Mony, with whom I’d lost touch, but who had been one of my earliest influences, I’d often think about Juicy Fruit, and whether she’d stayed on the game or become a singer. She’d been born with a pleasing voice and I’d always believed it could develop into a really good one if she worked at it.
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